“Who are you and what have you done with my boss?” she demanded, her gaze traveling from his sweatpants to his T-shirt. “I was convinced you slept in suits.”
He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms defensively. “I own clothes.”
“Clearly,” she said, gesturing with the spoon. “Though I have to say, this is not what I pictured. I was expecting monogrammed silk pajamas.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Not disappointed,” she said. “Merely surprised. I have never seen you look so human.”
“As opposed to what?”
“CEO robot? Financial terminator?” She gave the pot one last stir before setting the spoon aside. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
She gave him a look that combined medical diagnosis with judicial judgment. “So, terrible but maintaining appearances. Got it.”
He ignored this assessment, moving further into the kitchen to examine what she was cooking. “What is this?”
“My grandmother’s chicken soup,” she said. “Guaranteed to cure what ails you, according to everyone who’s ever tasted it.”
“You made soup,” he said. “In my kitchen.”
“Well, I didn’t make it in the bathroom,” she replied. “Though that might have been more sanitary. When was the last time you actually cooked here? Your pots had dust on them.”
“The penthouse came fully equipped. I’ve never had reason to use most of it.”
“That’s not an answer,” she said, ladling soup into a bowl. “Here. Sit. Eat.”
“I don’t need to be managed,” he said, even as he obeyed, settling onto a barstool at his kitchen island.
“Right,” she said dryly, setting the steaming bowl before him. “That’s why you were shivering with a 103-degree fever earlier. Because you’re so excellent at self-care.”
He reached for the spoon. “You didn’t need to stay.”
“Well, someone had to make sure you didn’t cook your brain with that fever. Besides,” she said, slicing into the bread with her back to him, “I already called us out sick for tomorrow. I’m committed now.”
He paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. “You did what?”
“Called us out sick,” she said, placing bread beside his bowl. “You have a fever. I’ve been exposed. It seemed logical.”
The soup was extraordinary—rich and complex, with herbs he couldn’t identify and a depth that spoke of hours of slow simmering. It was nothing like the bland, mass-produced versions he ordered when working late. This was revelatory.
“Good?” she asked, eyes bright with what looked suspiciously like pride.
He nodded reluctantly. “Acceptable.”
“High praise,” she said, rolling her eyes as she poured herself a bowl. “Remind me never to cook for you again.”
“I didn’t ask you to cook for me this time,” he pointed out, taking another spoonful. The warmth spread through him, easing aches he hadn’t realized he had.
“No, you didn’t,” she agreed, settling onto the stool beside him. “Consider it a bonus service. I excel at exceeding expectations.”
They ate in silence for several minutes, the only sound the gentle clink of spoons against ceramic. It was strange, this comfortable domesticity. Strange and yet not unpleasant. There was an ease to it that felt both foreign and oddly familiar, as if they’d shared countless quiet meals instead of just this one.
His apartment had never felt like this—warm, inhabited, alive.
“You really didn’t need to rearrange tomorrow,” he said finally, setting his spoon down. “I can manage.”
